


descensus

by KrasotaBella



Category: Myst Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Rewrite, Drama, Exsistentialism, Mental Breakdown, Panic Attacks, Psychological Drama, Retelling, back on my bullshit fellas, i LOVE brian wrench but the way he says Sirrus’s big line when he finds the bottom of spire is. eh, so i dramatized it hehe, working title: ‘time to give this twink a mental breakdown’
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:07:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29171616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrasotaBella/pseuds/KrasotaBella
Summary: Sirrus looks down off of the edge, down, down to the unknown—but then his world stops.Nothing.———In which Sirrus discovers what’s really at the bottom of Spire, and doesn’t handle it well.
Kudos: 7





	descensus

The days tend to melt together on Spire, and weeks can feel like centuries. But these last few months have, by far, been the longest for Sirrus.

After his first failed (and deeply embarrassing) attempt at constructing a vessel, he’d vowed never to make the same mistakes. If he ever wanted to leave this wretched place, he needed precision—No, perfection.  _ Absolute _ expertise in his handiwork, which leaves him spending countless nights hunched over his crudely-built workstation, triple-checking his calculations until he can’t think straight.

Because Spire is, in truth, completely desolate. It’s properties are a mystery to him. There are no graphs to consult, no natural histories to study; all of his calculations are based solely on his own observations. This means  _ endless _ room for error; one tiny mistake, one slip of the pen, one ‘T’ left uncrossed or ‘I’ undotted—

He reworks his calculations again. The numbers are a welcome repose in this husk of a prison, giving him a sense of clarity and rooting him to the world. Sirrus has always found a sense of comfort in math and science, and his thirst for knowledge only grew with age. Numbers were facts, and facts were comfortable. Facts, for lack of a better term, were easy. 

Unfortunately, wrangling floating rocks out of the sky with his bare hands is  _ not _ .

God knows how long it takes him, but eventually, the ship is ready. The electromagnets are in place and the vessel is prepared. Sirrus can’t remember the last time he blinked without velocity calculations flashing behind his eyes. Just before the second launch, there’s lead in his gut—what if he was wrong? What if the magnets still weren’t strong enough?

But the sight of the hollowed-out rock floating in the air fills him with glee he hasn’t known in  _ years— _ he can feel his fingers twitching with electricity, heart racing with adrenaline. He had done it. He could  _ leave.  _

Sirrus snatches his materials for the trip post-haste, barely able to contain his excitement as he climbs into the vessel and sets sail to the second spire. A string of memory suddenly finds him—he is reminded of playing with sailboats as a child, then tasting the copper-scented ocean air of Mechanical. It’s a sense he can barely grasp at anymore, but his frenzied mind clings to it, overjoyed at the prospect of returning to the outside world.

The ride is bumpy, but surely enough, the vessel makes it to the other Spire, landing with a dull  _ thunk  _ on the stone floor. He doesn't notice, clambering out of the ship with a stupid grin on his face and, for once, light in his eyes (Before, he’d always been very meticulous about how he expressed his emotions. Like a chameleon, he’d only reveal what he wanted others to see him as. But there hadn’t been  _ others _ in a very, very long time).

It doesn’t take long for him to locate the hollow tunnel down into the depths of the spire, reaching far below the thick blanket of clouds. Sirrus has to force his trembling hands to still as he ties a knot around the jagged crystal—all this progress would go to waste if he broke his legs on the fall down. And then he’s climbing, reaching the bottom, and he’s  _ there.  _ The horizon stretches out in front of him, inky darkness swimming in his vision.

Sirrus looks down off of the edge, down, down to the unknown. His only hope of salvation, a blind faith to which he’s been stumbling after with open arms, is  _ directly _ beneath him, a morsel of freedom for him to taste—but then his world stops.

Nothing.

There’s a beat of silence, a moment of hesitation where he doesn’t quite process what he’s seeing.  _ Finally,  _ he’s made it; he’s reached the other spire, climbed arm after arm into the vast caverns, and essentially dragged himself to the edge, exhausted and frantic to finally  _ see _ —

There’s no—it’s not—there’s  _ nothing— _

Sirrus takes a step back, suddenly unable to breathe; eyes wide like a cornered animal. Crystal blues and greens and endless dark sky swirl in his vision like melting watercolors. His stomach twists and coils,  _ vertigo _ ; the world swims, and he’s barely keeping his footing because he doesn’t  _ understand _ . This can’t be it. This isn’t happening. He can’t—

_ There’s nothing there. _

And Sirrus  _ screams. _

_ ————— _

  
  


When he comes back to himself, he’s curled back into a corner, sharp crystals pressing at his sides. The claustrophobia is a welcome distraction from the void beneath him—the endless, all consuming void. Mind-bendingly empty,  _ eldritch _ in nature.  _ There was no book. There never was. It was gone. He was trapped forever. Left to rot _ —

He gasps, works to slow his breathing. Removes the shaking hand he’d unknowingly clasped over his mouth and fumbles for thin pants of air.

_ All for nothing at all. _

He wants to laugh. He wants to vomit. 

There’s a cold numbness settling in his bones, and as he pushes himself to unsteady feet he takes one more look over the horizon. Something shifts in his chest, and he feels the irrational urge to fall forward; loose himself to the blissful throes of infinity.

_ L’appel du vide _ , the call of the void.

A shiver wracks him, and he takes another breath.

This couldn’t be it. This  _ wouldn’t _ be it. There had to be another way—he had to believe that, or he truly  _ would _ lose his mind. If he couldn’t use a linking book, he would need another method of escape—was it possible to manipulate The Art from within an age? Could he somehow find a way to contact Father? The blind panic clouding his mind gave way to numbers, theorems, graphs, resources, experiments. There had to be a way. And he was going to find it if it killed him. 

He was Sirrus. 

And he would not be defeated

**Author's Note:**

> AAaA thanks for reading!! shoutout to my buddy reno for proofreading haha 
> 
> GOD I love sirrus 
> 
> u can find me on tumblr at @sugarweregoingdownswinging or @incorrect-myst-quotes or on discord @drsunshinelives#0938


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